


Ruin

by RicePaper_Fox



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Pre-Canon, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RicePaper_Fox/pseuds/RicePaper_Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On and on it goes, an eternal battle where they lay the blame on each other, but mostly their son. Oma hears them across the hall, his only ally, and even then only sometimes. And he curls up in bed, knowing that somehow, this is his fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll admit now, I haven't fully decided how far I'm going to go with this. At least until he gets into Rosenkreuz.

There's a hole in the wall. It's only a hiccup in the ugly yellow wallpaper of the apartment. People watch him through it, they make sure he's behaving. He's never seen or heard them, not physically, but he knows that they're there. He hears their thoughts.

 

He's not crazy, not like Oma. The things that Oma sees and hears aren't real. Oma thinks that the Gestapo are after her.

 

She also thinks that he's stealing her thoughts, when he was only borrowing them. He doesn't want her memories; they're scary, full of pain and death and fear.

 

He's not crazy, and it's times like this, staring at the place he knows the hole in the wall is and the voices are louder than usual, that he needs to remind himself this. If he can anchor himself to the physical world, he knows that he's real, and he's himself and not anyone else. The things that he hears are real. He's learned not to tell anyone he hears them, though.

 

He's so intent on that wall that he doesn't hear Papa enter the room.

 

“Boy.”

 

Papa never calls him by his name. Oma doesn't either. Mama...Mama doesn't acknowledge his presence at all. The neighbors aren't sure what his name is. _What was the son's name again?_ They say. _I know we were told when we met, but I don't quite remember._

 

He's starting to forget it himself.

 

“Boy!” Papa repeats, and he finally looks around. “Are you stupid?”

 

Papa says that whenever he's too quiet. He wants to scream at Papa, tell him that no, he's not stupid. Sometimes when Papa says it, he wants to hit him, as if it'll make it better.

 

Instead, he says, “They're watching us again.”

 

“Don't say such things,” Papa says, and he knows that it means _don't let me hear you talking about your abnormality_. “Your mother has made breakfast. Go eat, and get to school.”

 

“Is Oma there?”

 

If she is, she could panic. It happens sometimes. When it does, Mama says she's in a mood. He thinks it's more like Oma is crazier than usual.

 

“She's better today,” Papa says, and he knows that she is there.

 

With some trepidation, he leaves his tiny bedroom and walks to the kitchen. He focuses on Mama's thoughts, and he knows Oma is rocking gently in a chair at the table, looking nervous. When he enters the kitchen, Mama doesn't turn to look at him. She won't. She knows what he can do, and she hates him for it and because Oma is so scared of him, so she pretends he isn't there.

 

Oma looks at him, though, and her eyes narrow. But it isn't in fear or anger, today. Today, she thinks that he's her ally.

 

“Do you hear them, Boy?” she asks in her gravelly voice. “Are the Gestapo there?”

 

“Papa doesn't want me to say,” he says.

 

“Your papa doesn't know anything,” she snaps.

 

He walks up to her, and whispers in her ear, “They're watching through my wall. They have a hole that they look through.”

 

“What about the rest of the house?”

 

“There's a hole above the stove.”

 

He feels a sharp yank as Papa pulls him away by the arm. “Stop feeding her lies,” he says. “You'll only make her worse.”

 

“We _are_ being watched,” he argues.

 

“There is no Gestapo,” Papa says.

 

“What about the Stasi?” he asks.

 

There's complete silence in the kitchen. Mama has stopped what she's doing, frozen with the frying pan still in the soapy water, and Oma's already thin old mouth narrows even more. Papa is angry, and is resisting the urge to hit him. But he thinks about the Secret Police watching them, and they're already at risk of being split; the only reason Oma is still living with them is a deep feeling of guilt, which the child doesn't understand.

 

Finally, Papa snaps, “Go to school.”

 

He doesn't mention that he hasn't eaten yet. He's lucky to be leaving the apartment unbruised as it is.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The neighbors are gone, and there is someone new there. He's amazed at how fast the transition is; sometimes apartments will sit empty for weeks. But the new neighbors move in the same day the old ones leave.

 

These ones make him even more nervous than the previous people. They're so quiet, and not just in their lives. They're quiet in their minds. He can catch bits and pieces of thoughts, but he doesn't hear every thought. Not like the others.

 

There's three of them, two teenagers and a man. The man is the only one he can hear on a regular basis, and not much at that. He knows that the man is Russian, and he wonders if he's a Soviet officer; sometimes he catches thoughts of a place where everyone wears uniforms and does exactly what they're told.

 

They don't watch him, though. He knows, because he can always hear when someone is watching him.

 

He wants to ask Oma about them, but she's afraid of him again. She thinks that he brought the new neighbors on the family. She's wondering if they should send him away, because the neighbors would follow. She doesn't know exactly what she means by sending away, though, and wonders if it means killing him.

 

So instead, he sits on his narrow bed and stares at the hiccup in the wallpaper. He thinks if he can take the association, maybe he can use that to connect to the neighbors' minds.

 

 _Don't bother, Child_.

 

He stops breathing, then gives a shaky gasp. It's like a separate voice in his mind, heavily Russian. But the man can't know what he's thinking, what he's doing. No one ever knows these things.

 

_Never?_

 

He can't move, can barely even think.

 

_What is your name?_

 

What _is_ his name? He can barely remember that he's eight years old. Papa and Oma haven't used his name in years. His teacher had used his name at some point today, but the building was so full of other children that it had gotten lost in the shuffle of their thoughts.

 

For some reason, this seems to amuse the Russian. _You had better decide, Child. You can't go on being called 'Boy' forever._

 

~ ~ ~

 

Mama and Papa are arguing again, and he can hear them on several planes.

 

“We can't go on like this!” Mama says.

 

“Will you keep it down?” Papa hisses.

 

“What's the point? He can hear us no matter how quiet we are.”

 

“You don't honestly believe that,” Papa says, and gives a bitter laugh. “I swear, sometimes I think you're as mad as your mother.”

 

“Don't say that. Don't you _dare_ say that.”

 

“Why not? We spend our time tiptoeing around, because no one wants to put her in a hospital. And why not? Guilt! Because of something that happened nearly forty years ago!” Now Papa is yelling, too. “And now the boy is weak in the head, and yet _still_ we do nothing. Worse yet, you perpetuate your mother's paranoid ramblings, insisting that he can read our thoughts because of something he said when he was four years old.”

 

Mama laughs now, and it's an ugly sound. “The way you're talking now, I'd think you were his greatest champion. But you hate him, too. As much as I do.”

 

“I hate what he is, yes. And I hate what he's made this family into,” Papa says. “It's killing you. It's driving your mother further into insanity. If I had known what trouble he would be, I would have left him in an orphanage a long time ago. But you insisted on keeping him, and now look what our lives are.”

 

“Don't you dare lay this on me,” Mama says. “You wanted him as much as I did.”

 

On and on it goes, an eternal battle where they lay the blame on each other, but mostly their son. Oma hears them across the hall, his only ally, and even then only sometimes. And he curls up in bed, knowing that somehow, this is his fault.

-


	2. Chapter 2

No one says anything when he shows up to school with his face bruised. For most of the adults, he just blends into a mass of children from poor families. They think what troubled times they live in, although he's not sure what that means, and shake their heads.

 

His teacher feels pity when she sees him. She feels bad for the little boy, having his condition, and he knows that it's the same thing as being what Papa calls 'weak in the head.' Worst, she feels bad for his parents, having a son with a condition, as if it justifies that Papa hit him last night. She talks to him with a voice like molasses, all too sweet, and slow to make him understand.

 

Another little boy loudly asks, “What happened to your face?”

 

“I fell,” is the rehearsed answer, the one that Papa always tells him to give. The boy looks doubtful for a moment, but then his face develops a grin, and he he starts to laugh, even though it doesn't seem like it should be funny.

 

He may not be able to hit Papa back, but he can certainly hit this boy. His schoolmate is bigger than him, one of the biggest in his class, but he lands on the boy with all his weight and starts landing blows wherever he can. The room is full of yelling, the mental noise is so loud he can barely think, can barely even see. It doesn't make a difference, though, he's in autopilot.

 

A pair of adults finally manage to pull them apart and drag them to the office. The other boy is full of explanations, and so gets to leave. Not him. He sits there, focusing on a stain on the wall, trying to quiet the noise in his head. It's so loud, and he's starting to slip away from himself, and he needs to anchor himself.

 

There is a sharp tapping on his face, and he turns to look at the schoolmaster.

 

“What's wrong with him?” the schoolmaster asks his teacher.

 

“I'm pretty sure he has a condition,” the teacher says.”He's a strange child. Quiet, not always there. I'm sure his parents haven't told the authorities because they don't want the family split. From what I can tell, they're trying to get along the best they can.”

 

The schoolmaster nods in understanding and says, “I don't think a schoolyard brawl is something to trouble them with further. Still, he is at fault. There should be _some_ consequence.”

 

“I can have him stay after,” the teacher says.

 

He's sent back to the classroom.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The Russian is becoming a constant presence in his mind, but it still takes nearly a month for him to ask who the Russian is.

 

_Isador Maslovsky._

 

 _Where are you from, Herr Maslovsky_.

 

 _St. Petersburg. The most beautiful city in the world. And you may call me Isador, Child_.

He tries to imagine what the most beautiful city in the world would look like. Where he lives is grey and stark, but sometimes he can catch memories of bright places with tall buildings, covered in shiny windows. He once saw one of a busy square covered in lights.

 

 _That is New York,_ Isador says. _It can be Hell for people like us to be in a city like that, with so many minds all the time._

 

That catches his attention. _Can you hear people's thoughts, too?_

 

_I can. And I can block them out, too._

 

_How?_

 

_I've been taught how._

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Be careful of that man,” Oma says. “He is dangerous.”

 

“What man?” he asks.

 

“The man next door. The Russian.”

 

“He's not Gestapo.” He doesn't know why he's bothering to say that. Oma calls anyone she doesn't like Gestapo, whether she thinks they are or not.

 

“I fear he's worse.”

 

He stops packing his bag for school and looks at her curiously. He doesn't know most days whether what she says is real. But she's always made it clear that she thinks of the Gestapo as the purest form of evil. And what could be worse than that?

 

“He's like me,” he says, finally.

 

“Seen through a glass darkly.” She leans close and whispers, “He wants you. He looks at you, and thinks, 'when that boy grows up, he'll be beautiful.' He wants to possess that, in the most vile way. But listen...don't make any promises to him. And if you have to, break them. Break every one.”

 

His heart is pounding, and for the first time in many years he feels fear at Oma's words. He doesn't know exactly what she means about wanting him in the most vile way, and he's not sure he wants to know.

 

Only after he's left for school does he realize what his Oma had been implying about herself.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Papa finds out that he's been fighting at school. The other parents see his bruises, and they don't want to talk to Papa. They hear that he picks fights, and they don't want their children associated with him. When he won't tell Papa why he's been getting into fights, Papa yanks his arm around until tears form in his eyes, but he still won't say what happened.

 

“This is your fault, boy,” Papa says. "You brought this on yourself.”

 

The other boy may be bigger than he is, may have been targeting him daily since that first fight, but it's still his own fault. It's been made clear to him that it's always his fault.

 

Finally, Papa gives a frustrated growl and gives him a clout across the face. He'll be going to school with another bruise, and his teacher will look at him with pitying eyes and talk to him with her sickly sweet voice. But she won't do anything about it, because she knows that his parents have enough on their hands, their son having a condition.

 

As he walks to his room and sits down on his little bed, facing the hiccup in the wall, he can hear his father cursing his luck, having a son that's weak in the head.

 

The voices aren't as loud today; they've been muffled by the pain in his arm and on his face. He's learned that pain reminds him who he is, and which body is his own. He closes his eyes and lets himself feel it, and the voices fade further.

 

He wonders what it would be like, to have complete silence the way Papa does.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 _Your grandmother is quite powerful,_ Isador tells him.

 

 _Oma's crazy._ He refuses to give up Oma's secret, even if someone else already knows.

 

_Untrained minds tend to crack under pressure. Even ones as powerful as your “Oma's.”_

 

He decides to change the subject. _Why haven't I ever seen your face?_

 

 _Because it's not time yet,_ Isador replies.

 

 _When will it be time?_ He doesn't know whether he ever wants it to be time, but it would be nice to at least have a warning. Oma may be crazy, but something about her words struck him.

 

_Do you know who you are, yet?_

 

He doesn't know what that means. He's still not entirely sure of his name, but he's sure Isador knows what it is. If Isador can hear things the same way he can, he must.

 

Finally, he replies _, No._

 

 _Then it isn't time._ There is a few moments pause, and then Isador asks, _Why don't you hit your father back?_

 

 _Because it's wrong_. It seems like such an obvious answer to him.

 

_Why?_

 

 _You're not supposed to hit your parents,_ he replies after some thought.

 

_That rule was invented by someone to keep control of their children. You should strike back, Child._

 

 _I can't_.

 

 _Why?_ Is Isador's question.

 

 _Because,_ he replies. _I'm too weak._

 

_Child, you have no idea how strong you are._


	3. Chapter 3

There's an eruption of chaos as soon as he walks in the door.

 

Oma jumps out of her chair and wraps bony fingers around his wrist and shoulder, and begins shaking him. She's surprisingly strong for a woman in her fifties, and the fingers digging into his skin hurts. Mama and Papa are trying to pull Oma off him, and everyone is yelling.

 

When they finally do, Mama pulls Oma into her arms, and the two of them walk down the hall to Oma's bedroom. He's sitting on the floor, fighting back tears.

 

“You!” Papa yells. “This is your fault!”

 

“What did I do?” he asks, and it comes out weaker than he wanted.

 

“You brought them down on us,” Papa says. “That Russian, he came around asking about you. You know who he is, don't you, Boy? He's the KGB, right? Your Oma is terrified now, thinking Stalin or someone is after her, and it's all your fault.”

 

“I'm sorry...”

 

“Sorry?” Papa snarls. “You're not sorry. You want this, don't you? You want us all to come to ruin. You won't be happy until we're dead. Or worse.”

 

He's not entirely sure what could be worse than being dead, and right now he doesn't care one way or the other. All he wants is to escape, to leave this house and go...somewhere. As Papa brings a hand down on him, Isador's words about striking back come to him.

 

Without him knowing how it happens, Papa is on the floor screaming, head in hands.

 

He gets up and runs.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He's only eight years old, and with nowhere to go, he returns to the apartment.

 

Papa is in bed with a wet cloth over the eyes. Papa is afraid that it was a migraine, but Mama knows better. She listens to him tip-toeing down the hallway, and she's terrified. But she also thinks that Papa is doing better, and is happy her son can't do worse.

 

He's not so sure one way or the other whether he can; until today, he didn't even know he could affect other people. Isador had said, _you have no idea how strong you are._

 

Oma knows what happened, and he's surprised at how peaceful this has made her. She's made a decision, and it makes her happy.

 

As soon as he lays down on his narrow bed, Isador says, _Who are you, Child?_

 

But he doesn't feel like talking, and simply says, _Go away._

 

 _There is no privacy in this world._ Isador tells him. _Before I came here, the Stasi watched you through the walls. They listened through your phone. They're in your schools. Everywhere you have ever been, you have been watched. Why should now be any different?_

 

 _Are you the KGB?_ He asks.

 

 _Sometimes_.

 

_What do you mean?_

 

 _I am a cog in the clockwork which moves the world_.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He knows now that sooner or later, Isador will leave. And he will be taken along. He doesn't know when, though, and that terrifies him. He doesn't know why the Russian waits to take him; it has something to do with that question, _who are you_.

 

At some point, it occurred to him that he'd never seen the other two inhabitants of Isador's apartment. They don't come and go, not when he's around, and he can't hear them.

 

Oma says it's because he isn't trying to.

 

He doesn't understand Oma lately, though. He could when she was crazy, because it was the same thing every time, and it was like a cycle. But now, Oma is expecting something else from him. He gets the feeling that she wants him to lash out again, to hurt someone else, and he's not sure why, especially since she used to be afraid that he would.

 

It's like she's not even crazy anymore, and he wonders if she was only pretending. Except, he has the feeling that she _is_ crazy, only in a different way.

 

He does feel when Isador is there, now, though. And every time he does, she seems to revert back to the way she was, rambling about Nazis spying on them, coming to take her away. Isador believes it, and he thinks that if he can hear her thoughts, he'd know if she was pretending.

 

And Papa doesn't really talk to him anymore, although for a different reason than Mama. Mama knows what he can do. Papa is afraid that he's telling their every move to the KGB. This would be fine, if Papa didn't pay attention to him long enough to wallop him on a regular basis.

 

His teacher looks at him and thinks he's a troubled child.

 

~ ~ ~

 

When he comes into the apartment after school today, only Oma is there. She's sitting on a chair facing the door, holding a gun in her hand. He freezes as soon as he sees, not entirely sure what to do.

 

Finally, he tentatively says, “Oma...where did you get that?”

 

“You might be surprised what you can convince people to do,” she says. “What you can get people to give you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because, Boy, the time has come.”

 

“What time?” he asks. “What do you mean?”

 

“They're coming for you.” She's lowered her voice to a whisper. “There's nothing I can do to stop it.”

 

“Oma...”

 

“Listen!” she hisses. “Your mama and papa are weak. Not like you and me. Not like your Opa. Yes, Boy, he was strong. He had to be. And you will have to be.”

 

“What—“

 

“The Gestapo came for him, but he survived. And when they found me, thought me crazy, ordered me gone...”

 

He knows that there's no point in arguing with her. If he tries, she'll just tell him to be quiet and listen.

 

“They're coming for you. They want to use you, to use your abilities. They'll do experiments, see how far they can push your limits. Never forget, Boy, you come from fighters. You survive, and you fight.”

 

It takes a moment for him to realize what she's going to do, and when he does, it's too late. The blast from the gun goes off, and he stands there, spattered in Oma's blood, staring at where her face used to be.

 

He hears Mama and Papa coming up the stairs and does the first thing he can think of: he runs into his bedroom and crawls under the bed. From there he hears Mama's scream—he's never heard anything like it before, and he knows Papa has just vomited. Then there is the pounding of footsteps down the hall, and Papa comes into the bedroom, and yanks him from under the bed.

 

He gives a scream of terror as Papa drags him down the hallway and forces his head up to look at Oma's body.

 

“You see this?!” Papa yells. “You see this? Your Oma would never have done this if it weren't for you. If you had never existed, this wouldn't have happened. This is your fault.”

 

“No!” he screams, and lashes out with all this might.

 

Papa's hands go slack in his hair, and he looks to see his father twitching on the floor. Mama is cowering in a corner, crying.

 

He turns and runs from the apartment.

 

~ ~ ~

 

He doesn't have to look up to know that the Russian is standing in front of him. He doesn't want to. Instead, he just sits in the rubble of the abandoned building, staring at his feet.

 

“Oh, Child,” Isador says, sounding strangely pleased. “Look what you've done. I told you that you were stronger than you thought.”

 

“What do you want?” he asks in defeat.

 

“You.” He makes it sound to obvious.

 

“My family is...”

 

“Indeed,” Isador says. “Don't you understand? If you're destroyed, it's just that much easier to build you up into something better.”

 

He looks up into the dark, handsome face of the Russian.

 

“Now tell me, child,” Isador says. “Who are you?”

 

He closes his eyes and says one word. “Schuldig.”


End file.
